


it was your heart on the line

by Eyesofdoe



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Not much plot but some
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-23
Updated: 2019-08-23
Packaged: 2020-09-24 12:08:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20358253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eyesofdoe/pseuds/Eyesofdoe
Summary: In which Enjolras is bold, Grantaire is always late, and a terrible professor brings them together.





	it was your heart on the line

Enjolras is in a class he hates, and there’s a boy who comes in late every single day.

His professor is a right-wing nutjob, all of their discussions somehow meander into arguments over gun rights, and it’s an 11 A.M. class, so there’s really no good reason to be stumbling in ten minutes after the lecture’s started.

The girl next to him asked for his number on the first day of class, and he thought she was flirting, but then she said everyone talks about how smart he is and now she cheats during every single one of their tests, and he  _ also  _ wears sweatpants most days, so it’s not like he’s getting dressed up or anything, there’s  _ really  _ no reason to be late.

He got a B on their first exam, and he just knows it’s because the professor disagrees with him on policy issues and not because he’s wrong, and the boy sits in the back, so it’s kind of a huge disruption because he has to walk all the way to the back of the room, mid-lecture, and Enjolras can’t see the powerpoint.

The professor always calls on Enjolras for answers, but just to inevitably humiliate him in front of the class when he can’t formulate an argument against someone whose been asking the same questions long enough to get tenured for it. He often comes in with paint dried on his hands, and you would think that if someone was going to be ten minutes late, they might spend a couple of those minutes scrubbing their hands in the bathroom.

Someone behind him listens to music, earbuds in but turned all the way up, so Enjolras can hear the tinny, muted sound of Post Malone behind him, and he wouldn’t be able to even recognize Post Malone’s music if this person behind him wasn’t apparently his biggest fan. The guy has to be at least a sophomore, because this class has prerequisites, and after two years of college, you should be able to make it to class on time.

Most importantly, Enjolras is missing notes every damn time he walks in. He has whole sections of lectures missing, because the professor moves fast, the door slams noisily, the guy blocks the powerpoint, and unfortunately, he is so, very fucking hot.

Enjolras is not the type to be affected by this. It’s college, there are hot people everywhere, and he adjusted to that fact long before now. But there is just  _ something  _ about this particular guy that keeps him distracted for at least two minutes after he comes in, every time. It wouldn’t be an issue if he weren’t late, but he is, every single day.

He is late with wildly curly hair, dried paint on tan hands, sometimes clean-shaven but usually with stubble, and the infamous gray sweatpants.

Enjolras has questions. About the paint, the tardiness, the fact that he sometimes just carries a notebook and nothing else,  _ does he own more than one pair of gray sweatpants or is he wearing those literally every other day because that’s kind of disgusting but Enjolras would put up with it anyway, which is honestly one of the most alarming parts of this whole situation. _

They’ve never talked. Enjolras has never even seen him before, which is shocking, because it’s a small school and Enjolras is SGA president, so at the risk of sounding snobby, he could say he knows most people.

This guy, though, clearly isn’t most people.

Most people would drop a class if they were ten minutes late every day. If they didn’t, most people would be kicked out. Most people would wear a pair of jeans every now and again. Most people might brush their hair, or at least put on a hat so it’s not so everywhere. Most people are not so painfully attractive that they can’t be ignored, even late and in sweatpants with tangled hair.

He answers a question, once, and Enjolras only knows it’s him because it’s a voice from the back of the room that he’s never heard before.

“Where are you getting your news?” Professor (Doctor? Enjolras has never cared to find out) Hannigan had asked, apparently unaware that the Earth was about to tilt on its axis as they entered an alternate dimension.

“Twitter.” The guy responds, sounding unbearably smug about it. Enjolras hates him, but God, he doesn’t.

“That’s not real news, it’s biased opinions being shared on-”

“On a platform that allows you to track events real time, hear multiple perspectives, and find key words and sources to look up when you’re doing your own research.” Enjolras speaks up, suddenly incapable of shutting his mouth, because he has to defend this total (attractive) stranger.

“ _ And, _ ” The guy continues, “People often make very funny jokes about things.”

“What isn’t funny is misinformation.” Hannigan says, “Grantaire, I’d suggest you start doing your own research.”

“I’d suggest you consider the idea that just because something is new doesn’t mean it’s invalid.” Enjolras says. “Social media websites, like Twitter, have gotten young people excited about the news. Which is a gateway into being excited about politics and caring what’s going on in the world.”

“Social media websites,” Hannigan starts, disdain heavy in his voice, “Have given everyone a platform to share their opinion, and allowed your average person to spit out whatever nonsense they think may be true-”

Enjolras stops listening, because it’s like arguing with a wall. And when he looks back,  _ Grantaire  _ is on his phone, clearly done with his momentary outburst. And he knows his name, which preoccupies his train of thought for the entirety of the class period. Fifty minutes has never gone so slow.

He’s looking down at his backpack, trying to shove everything in so he can make it to work on time, when someone knocks on his desk.

“Thanks for standing up for me.” Grantaire says. “I don’t really give a fuck what he says, but it was cool of you to do.”

“I mean, it’s just what everyone should do, you know?” Enjolras stammers, making no sense, years of writing and oratory thrown completely out the window.

“But everyone didn’t.” Grantaire says. “You did.”

He leaves after that, but Enjolras  _ thinks  _ he catches a wink on his way out the door, and just that is enough to keep him dizzy for a moment. He has to stand there, collecting his thoughts, and then he understands why someone might be late.

Maybe they have just had an earth-shattering, ten second interaction with the person they’ve been hopelessly enamored with for weeks. Maybe they’ve just experienced what must be the world’s first real-world case of love at first conversation. Maybe, they’re paralyzed in place because they felt an electric kind of spark that makes their body feel like it’s still on fire, even when they’re standing alone in an empty classroom.

Maybe, sometimes, it’s okay to be a bit late.

But there’s still no excuse for ten minutes late every single day.

Especially when Enjolras can experience all of the above, and still somehow manage to be five minutes early to work.

***

When he gets into class the next day, Grantaire is not late. And maybe he wouldn’t notice if Grantaire were in the back of the room, where he usually is, but instead he’s sitting next to Enjolras’ usual seat. It’s the one where the girl who cheats off of him usually sits, so he can’t say he’s unhappy about the disruption. Especially when Grantaire gives him a lazy smile when he walks through the door.

“You’re early,” Enjolras says when he sits down.

“And you noticed.” Grantaire smirks.

“Well, you’re always late, and I’m distracted pretty easily.”

“You would think a good student would be paying attention to the lecture. I get the impression you’re a good student. Am I correct?”

“I don’t know.” Enjolras says, feeling his face flush. He doesn’t like talking about himself, nor does he like bragging about his accomplishments, and this puts him in a place to do both.

“That means you are. And humble, too. You can tell by the way you talk to the professor. Like you’re equals, not like you’re in awe.”

“I’m not at all impressed by him,” Enjolras says, surprised by the level of his own disgust, “He’s definitely someone who just enjoys projecting his opinion onto a bunch of impressionable students.”

“Oh?” Grantaire asks, a look of amusement on his face, “And you know better than them, huh?”

“Probably not  _ all  _ of them.”

“Hmm...maybe not so humble after all.”

The way he says it isn’t rude, or even just observatory. He almost seems pleased. Enjolras starts to argue, to assert that he gives  _ everyone  _ the benefit of doubt, assure Grantaire that he’s a good person and he doesn’t think he’s the smartest person in the room, despite how he sounded.

But Hannigan walks in, and he likes to start class immediately. And so Enjolras doesn’t have time to defend himself, or to discuss the importance of seeing yourself as equal to your peers. He doesn’t have time to insist that he isn’t that smart, really, and even to defend the students who fall for Hannigan’s intellectual act. After all, he’s in a powerful position, and not everyone has yet learned to question authority the way Enjolras has.

And so, Grantaire derails his train of thought yet again, and this time not because he’s undeniably beautiful or late or walking in front of the powerpoint. It’s because he’s made Enjolras question his convictions with a simple seven word analysis, one of which wasn’t even a real word.

Enjolras realizes he hasn’t taken any notes about ten minutes into the lecture, and he scrambles to catch up once he’s finally put his self-doubt aside. Grantaire is watching him out of the corner of his eye, he can  _ feel  _ it, like taking notes is some foreign idea. About ten minutes before the end of class, when Enjolras flips to his final page of notes for the lecture, Grantaire starts doodling on the corner of his notes. As in Enjolras’ notes.

He is nearly late to work, again, because he is busy staring at the sketch. It’s a lion, made of tiny, complex feathered lines. It had taken him something like five minutes, if that, and it is a better drawing than Enjolras could make in half an hour. It is soft but fierce, with wise eyes and a strong jaw. And Enjolras hates that it’s just on a corner of his notes, rather than somewhere public for all to see.

And he hates, too, that he’s still thinking of Grantaire’s words hours later.

“Eponine?” Enjolras asks when they’re studying for a French test. They’re both acing the course, so he doesn’t feel too guilty subtracting from their study time.

“Yes?”

“Do you think I’m…” He searches for the right word, “Smug?”

“Smug?” She asks, laughing. “What do you mean?”

“Full of myself.” He says, then sighs. “Does it seem like I think I’m the smartest person in the room?”

“You usually are the smartest person in the room.”

“But...do I act like it?”

“Enjolras…” She says, trailing off.

“I want to hear your honest answer.”

Enjolras considers himself someone who is always working on self-improvement. And he can’t stand people who are full of themselves, particularly when it comes to intelligence. Being “smart” is a social construct, there is nothing inherently better about people who are academically inclined, intellectualism doesn’t really mean anything. 

“I mean maybe a little?” She says, “Un peu?”

“How?” Enjolras asks.

“I don’t want to argue with you.”

“I’m being sincere, I want to be better.”

“There’s nothing, like,  _ wrong  _ with it. You’re not cocky or anything, you just carry yourself like you know you’re smarter than everyone else. I don’t think you can help it.”

“Can I have an example?”

“Like, you corrected Annika in class the other day when she used the wrong tense. That’s not your job; it’s the professor’s, and even he was just going to let it slide.”

“Well, thanks to me, she won’t be failing any tests in the future.”

“Yeah, because you slightly humiliated her in public? I know you’re doing what you think is the right thing, but yeah, sometimes you come off a little stuck up because you clearly know you’re smart. I don’t think you can help it.”

“I’ll try to be better. Can you help me?”

“What is this about?”

“There’s this guy in my media globalization class, and he kind of insinuated that I think I’m better than other people?”

“That’s kind of rude.”

“He didn’t mean it in a bad way. It sounds less rude in context.”

“I don’t see how he could tell you nicely that you’re smug.”

“I don’t even think he was saying I was smug, I just can’t think of a better word. He said something like…’maybe you’re not so humble after all.’ We were talking about it.”

“Enjolras, were you  _ flirting _ ?” Eponine asks, a smile on her face, “Who is this?”

“I wasn’t flirting!” He insists, but he feels his cheeks get red. 

“It sounds like flirting to me.”

“Maybe he was flirting, but I definitely wasn’t flirting.”

“So you’re not into it?”

Enjolras looks down at the ground, begins viciously rubbing a scuff on his boot with his thumb. When did it get so scuffed? Maybe he stubbed the toe on his way up the library steps. Maybe he was dragging his feet when he came down his apartment stairs. Maybe he tripped between classes.

“Enjolras!” Eponine squeals, equal parts scandalized and delighted. “You never like anyone!”

“I don’t know if I like him, exactly,” Enjolras mutters, “I just think he has beautiful hair and he’s always late and I keep missing notes because he distracts me.”

“And he’s making you miss notes! Oh my god, who are you? Who is  _ he _ ?”

“I don’t want to tell you because he seems like someone you might know.”

Eponine is some sort of complicated, interdisciplinary art major that Enjolras doesn’t understand. Vocal performance and flute performance and also studio art, and it’s very confusing to him, but judging by the lion drawing and the paint on Grantaire’s hands, it probably puts her in his direct path.

“Since when do you keep secrets from me?”

“Since I know you’ll meddle!”

“Me?” Eponine asks, aghast, “Meddling?”

“You locked Marius in a room with Cosette our freshman year.”

“And now they’re in love!”

“Because your crazy plan worked.” Enjolras says, starting to pack up his stuff. It’s clear they aren’t doing anymore studying tonight, “I want to do this my way.”

“And what is your way?” She asks, “Ignoring him until he, hopefully, makes a move?”

“Maybe I’ll make a move.” He says, standing up with his bag.

She laughs like he told a joke, “You’re about as likely to make a move as you are to admit that I’m better at French than you are.”

“You’re better at French than I am.” Enjolras grits through his teeth. Admittedly, it hurts a little.

“Wow, you really are making some changes.”

“I’m going home.”

“Same time tomorrow?”

“Of course.”

Grantaire comes in after Enjolras the next day, but still long before the professor usually arrives. He slides into the seat next to him.

“Did I hurt your feelings yesterday?” Grantaire asks.

“No, why?” 

“Because I thought I might’ve seemed harsh, and I wasn’t trying to be.”

“You weren’t harsh. You were right. I’ll do better.”

Grantaire laughs a little at that, shaking his head.

“What?” Enjolras asks.

“You are so interesting,” Grantaire says, “Just this whole thing you have going on. Always trying to be a better person, standing up for others. It’s quite a persona.”

“I wouldn’t call it a persona.”

“So do you do it because it’s who you are or because it’s who you want people to think you are?”

Enjolras huffs, because it’s honestly rude to catch him off guard with a question like that.

“I like to think it’s who I am,” Enjolras says, “But to an extent, we’re all performing a certain version of ourselves.”

“Interesting answer.”

“Well, do you come here with paint on your hands because you just happen to have not washed them in a while, or do you want people to know you’re an artist?”

“Who says I’m an artist? I could be a handyman.”

“The lion.”

“I doodle from time to time.”

Enjolras just glares, “I took your question seriously.”

“But no one said you had to.” Grantaire says, his eyes lighting up.

“It’s only fair.”

“Of course, someone like you is all about fairness.”

“In all honesty, what can you know about me after two real conversations?”

“Lots of things. I know you’re smart, and I know you know you’re smart. I know you care deeply about things. I know you’re kind of insecure. I know you’re all about bettering yourself.”

“And I don’t know a single thing about you.”

“Because you  _ love  _ talking about yourself. It’s so obvious, but you’d never admit it.”

“You can’t pin it on me. I just asked a question and you’re refusing to answer.”

“And doesn’t that tell you something about me?”

“I don’t know, maybe that you’re a jackass.” Enjolras says sharply.

Grantaire throws his head back and laughs, a delightful sound. He rewards Enjolras with a real answer.

“I am an artist. I come in with paint on my hands because the kind of paint I’m working with this semester is incredibly hard to get off,” He lowers his voice, “But, in the interest of full disclosure, it does make me feel kind of cool.”

He can’t help but spare a glance toward Grantaire’s hands. The paint is usually blues, greens, sometimes purple. But today it is striking, his dark skin streaked with red and gold and orange.

“You’ve changed colors.” Enjolras notes, trying his hand at this analysis.

“And  _ you’ve  _ been staring at my hands,” Grantaire smirks.

The professor comes in before Enjolras can argue, in his typical fashion. He hopes that someday soon he can get the last word.

Like yesterday, Grantaire starts sketching in the corner of Enjolras’ notes right before the end of class. And in his usual fashion, he’s out the door as soon as the professor’s dismissed them. And today, in the corner of his paper, is a rose, spindly and thorny and with petals falling away. He feels as if it’s in motion, like he’s watching the petals flutter to the bottom of the page.

The next day, it’s a rope bridge, stretched taut with little cars zooming across.

Then a bird, with piercing eyes and a strong beak.

Then a tall, ink black pine tree.

Enjolras starts tearing the corners off his notes, compiling them in a spare drawer in his desk, because maybe Grantaire will want them back someday.

***

Courfeyrac knows everyone, and he’s the best secret keeper out of all of Enjolras’ friends, so he goes to him first. Also, they go to a party together that night and Enjolras can no longer hold back from asking someone.

“Do you know Grantaire?” He asks, sitting on the edge of Courfeyrac’s bed as he tries on approximately forty different outfits.

“Art guy?” Courfeyrac asks distractedly, staring at himself in the mirror. “I think this is the one.”

“Agreed,” Enjolras says, because he critiqued the first outfit, and that’s what got them into this mess. “And yes, art guy.”

“Yeah, a little. He parties a lot. Well, I say parties. He mostly just kind of lurks around and I don’t think he drinks.”

“What do you know about him?”

“Not very much. We’ve talked a few times.”

“Has he ever been...mean to you?”

“Mean?” Courfeyrac snorts, “Are you being bullied?”

“Not exactly.”

“What did he say?”

“He’s said lots of things.” Enjolras says.

The day he drew the bridge, he told Enjolras that he seemed “detached from reality” and “too optimistic given the state of the world.”

On the day of the bird, Enjolras was “awfully Type A, suspiciously organized.”

“You come off as cold,” He had said the day he drew the pine tree, “You have this way of looking at people that’s harsh, kind of unforgiving.”

Not exactly the kind of thing you want to hear from someone you’re dreadfully attracted to.

“He’s never been mean to me, but we aren’t that close. How do you know him?” Courfeyrac asks.

“He’s in media globalization with me.” 

“Oh! He’s the guy.”

“Have you been talking to Eponine?” Enjolras asks, his eyes narrowed.

“...Perhaps,” Courfeyrac says, “For the record, he’s definitely flirting with you. She said you seemed into him.”

“I don’t know. Maybe I would be if he weren’t pointing out all my flaws.”

“I thought you were trying to better yourself at all times?”

Enjolras sulks. “Even when you’re trying to better yourself, it’s difficult when someone presents you with an itemized list of all your issues. Some of which you didn’t even know you had. He says I come off as cocky.”

“Hmm...and this is news to you?”

Enjolras laughs in spite of himself, “Can we  _ please  _ just go to this party?”

Enjolras ducks into the kitchen to make a drink, Courfeyrac long gone, and he is only semi-surprised to find Grantaire leaning against the counter. Talking, of course, to Eponine.

She waves him over, clearly unaware that Grantaire is  _ the guy  _ she’s been running around telling everyone about.

“Hey, Enjolras!” She says, “I didn’t know you were coming. Have you met Grantaire?”

The next few seconds are like something out of a movie. Enjolras feels his whole face flush red, Grantaire snorts, and Eponine seems to realize exactly what is going on without anyone saying a word, her entire face lighting up like Christmas morning.

“We have a class together,” Enjolras mumbles.

“Media globalization,” Grantaire tacks on, “We sit together.”

“Do you?” Eponine asks.

“We do.” 

Grantaire is smiling, and Eponine is smiling, and Enjolras can’t help but feel like he’s on the outside of some very mean inside joke.

“Oh, is that Musichetta? It’s been so long since I’ve seen her,” Eponine says, with zero enthusiasm in her voice, and then disappears into the crowd of the party.

“It’s nice to see you outside of class,” Grantaire says, “It’s almost like seeing a celebrity in public or something.”

“Why are you mean to me?” Enjolras blurts out, because subtlety is not his strong suit, and now he can finally confront him.

“Am I?” Grantaire asks.

“You are.”

“I don’t try to be. I like you a lot.”

“You could’ve fooled me.”

“I wouldn’t draw those things for you if I didn’t like you.”

“Then why do you point out all my flaws?”

“Because at first I was convinced you had none,” Grantaire says, head cocked, “You’re bold, courageous, intelligent. And you’re beautiful. It humanized you and it made me less nervous.”

“Well, you’ve just made me more nervous to be around you.”

“You shouldn’t be. I’m not very good at making friends. It seemed like you enjoy our conversations.” 

“I do.” Enjolras says, “I enjoy them, but they’re vexing, and they make me feel-”

“Imperfect?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras doesn’t say anything.

“You’re not perfect.” Grantaire says, “And that’s okay.”

Enjolras just nods.

“Do you want to get out of here?” Grantaire asks, “There’s something I’ve been wanting to show you.”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, surprising even himself with his lack of hesitation. He texts Courfeyrac as they head out the door so he won’t come looking for him.

Enjolras expects to be lead to an apartment or a dorm, maybe even a car. He’s not familiar with these sorts of encounters, but when he finds himself standing in front of the dark art studio, he thinks he might not be doing it right.

“Are we going to have sex here?” Enjolras asks, because he assumes they’re on the same page.

“Whoa,” Grantaire snorts, then bursts into a full laugh, “No, we’re not.”

Apparently they are not on the same page.

“Good, because I really don’t want to get in trouble with the administration,” Enjolras says, “Not that we’re going to have sex at all.”

“How often do you have sex with people after you accuse them of being mean to you?” Grantaire asks as he leads Enjolras down a hallway, so familiar that he does not even bother turning on the light. Enjolras stumbles over a loose wood plank in the floor, so Grantaire grabs his hand.

“I don’t, usually,” Enjolras says.

“So I’m just special?”

“Yes.” Enjolras says, bluntly.

“I’m glad you said that, because it makes me feel less crazy for showing you this.”

“I really hope it’s not a dead body, because finding out you’re a murderer now would be really disappointing.”

“You caught me.” Grantaire says dryly.

He pulls Enjolras into a room off the hallway, flipping on the light when they step inside. It smells strongly of paint, vaguely toxic and thick in the air. He sees paintings of landscapes, portraits, abstractions. Grantaire is leading him to a far back corner, to a little cubicle that has a sign bearing “R :-)” that clearly belongs to him.

“Close your eyes,” Grantaire says.

Enjolras does.

“Okay, so, this is kind of weird. But we’ve had this final project, and something just totally inspired me. I hope you don’t think I’m crazy. If you do, feel free to run out of the studio and I’ll totally move seats in media.”

Enjolras opens his eyes. It takes a moment for him to register what the painting is. It’s all reds and golds, like the colors on Grantaire’s hands lately. It’s simple, but painfully beautiful with his brushstrokes, somehow strong and delicate all at once. It’s a portrait, but one half of the face is a lion. Not unlike the one Grantaire drew on Enjolras’ paper, regal and strong, bursting with the potential for ferocity. On the other side, is Enjolras. And Grantaire has transformed him into something else entirely, something strong and beautiful himself.

“This...is amazing,” Enjolras says.

“I was just so inspired by you.” Grantaire says, “And at first it was just like, oh, he’s strong like a lion. But then we talked and this has become one of my favorite paintings, and I wanted to show you but I didn’t want you to think it was weird. And I like you so much, I don’t know why I’ve been mean to you, if-”

Enjolras kisses him, because it seems like the right thing to do. It seems like the thing that the him in the painting would do. And his paint-stained hands curl in Enjolras’ hair, his lips cracked and dry, but somehow comforting. Enjolras’ hands are on his waist, wrapped tight around his body, trying to touch all of him that he can. Grantaire’s breathing is ragged, and Enjolras feels as if he’s drinking all the oxygen from his lips, and kissing Grantaire feels like arguing with him, like watching him paint, like falling in love with him all at once.

Grantaire breaks away, nuzzling in close to Enjolras’ throat. His voice is a low grumble, kissed hoarse. “Have you rethought your policy on fucking in the art studio?”

Enjolras laughs, full-bodied and delighted, surprising himself when he finds it genuinely funny. “Unfortunately not.”

“That’s okay,” Grantaire says, “I think it would prove Hannigan right if we did it on his desk instead.”

“Or perhaps,” Enjolras murmurs, chuckling still, “We could start in a bed.”

“I like the way you think.” Grantaire says.

Enjolras is an avid worrier. But as Grantaire kisses him again, all shaky hands and sighs of disbelief, Enjolras does not worry about this. He knows this is not a one night stand, nor a mistake, nor a relationship doomed to fail. 

“Come on, lion man,” Grantaire says, “We have lots to learn about each other still.”

**Author's Note:**

> i have wanted to write a fic for this pairing FOREVER!! nothing has seemed to fit well until now.   
i hope you enjoy this. it's been so long since i've engaged with les mis in any way, i hope none of this is grossly terrible or out of character.


End file.
